


A World Away

by amandaterasu



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood Spoilers, Grief/Mourning, Love at First Sight, Widowed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 04:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21191324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amandaterasu/pseuds/amandaterasu
Summary: Magnai travels to Ishgard for a political conference at Hien's request, and finds more than he expected in the frozen city. Contains Spoilers for Stormblood.A quick gift fic for my friend @campdragonhead as a warm up exercise for my writing.





	A World Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [campdragonhead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/campdragonhead/gifts).

Magnai hated Ishgard. Too much cold, too much stone, no gentle fields or warm Azim. Here, Father Sun’s light was cold and remote, granting no heat even as his favored son walked amidst these Elezen. The things he did for his people.

Lord Hien had explained much - these people, these… _Eorzeans_ had a pact amongst themselves, wherein they maintained their sovereignty but aided each other in times of war. Now the Doman wanted a similar alliance amongst the people of Othard, and to join in an even larger agreement with those across the sea. 

It was all politics, and Magnai hated it, but his people required representation, and not even Azim himself could get Magnai to let _Sadu_ go in his stead, like she had suggested. No, he would endure this madness and return home.

Hien had secured rooms for them all in a section of the city called “the Pillars”, and though it was cold, it was so high in the air that when he stood on the edge he felt like he was flying on the back of his yol, the wind in his face. That was the first time he saw her.

The latch of a door, and a mumbled “m’lady,” from a guard, caught his attention, and he glanced over his shoulder. A Viera in a black gown, with a black veil over her face, like storm clouds over the full moon. Their eyes met for only a moment. His breath caught in his throat. Then she looked away, and headed towards the cathedral.

Magnai followed surreptitiously, keeping well back. She was easy enough to keep track of in the crowd. Others avoided her, or made signs of respect as she passed, and so they made of her a shooting star down the wide boulevard, the empty space of her passing the comet’s screaming tail.

When he entered the cathredral, a few moments after she had, he saw her approach one of the many alcoves along the side, one with a statue of a unicorn rearing on its hind legs, the muscles of its flanks rendered in exquisite detail in the marble. He was almost upon her, almost close enough to speak to her, when one of the white-robed holy men stepped between them.

“We don’t get many Au Ra in the cathedral, young man!” He was all smiles. “Has Halone’s grace inspired you to seek Her counsel?”

Magnai took a step back, and scoffed. “I do not need the gods of your frozen fields, old man,” he countered. “I was just curious.”

The elder did not seem surprised. “Well, I’m happy to answer any questions you have. Halone cares for all the righteous, even those who do not pay Her homage, so long as their heart is true.” Then he was alone again, and the Viera in black was gone.

* * *

That evening, Magnai was forced to attend a ‘ball’ that one of the Elezen was throwing in honor of their arrival. He had not been sure what a ball exactly was, beyond the children’s toy, but a quarter of an hour in, he already knew he didn’t like it. 

It was as if someone had taken a bonfire of the Steppe, and stripped all the joy and passion from it. Yes, there was feasting, but it was all pretty words and small bites with tiny metal cutlery that even a child would be insulted to wield back home. There was dancing, but it was all slow and stately, miniscule movements of the hands and feet - no one’s heart raced within their chest as they revelled in the glory of being alive. Even the fire had been contained, caught behind a metal screen in a stone crevice, rather than allowed to burn for Nhaama, a miniscule version of Azim, to remind Mother Moon that her children were there, and they loved her, and Azim loved her - a balm to her loneliness.

Still, Hien had begged his forbearance for the evening, and through gritted teeth, Magnai reminded himself he did this for his people. 

While he stood beside Hien, who made small talk with one of these frigid Ishgardians, the man at the top of the stairs called names, and people descended the stairs. There were too many to remember, but it was something to observe. Then, to Magnai’s surprise and delight, _she_ appeared again. The same Viera, clad in another black dress, though this time she wore no veil. “Lady Rynn Greystone,” the man announced. “Widow of Lord Haurchefant Greystone.”

Magnai watched her descend the stairs with such grace it seemed as if she were floating. An older man, leaning heavily on his cane, took her hand and lead her away from the steps towards a clutch of others across the room. The Elezen speaking with Hien chuckled. 

“I see Widow Greystone has caught your eye,” he said, and Magnai eyed him. “I can make introductions, if you would like.”

A quick glance at Hien, who nodded his approval. If it would not be rude, speaking to her face could not hurt. He gave a short, sharp nod, and a few moments later, was following the man in blue across the room.

“Forgive me, Lord Edmont,” the man with Magnai said. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but in an effort to facilitate warm feelings between our peoples, I was hoping I could introduce this gentleman to you and yours, and leave him in your care for the evening.” 

The old man smiled. “Of course, Aymeric. We’re happy to do our part.” The four faces, three elezen men and the Viera - the “Widow Greystone” - turned their gazes to Magnai while his companion spoke.

“House Fortemps, I am pleased to introduce Magnai the Elder, Khan of the Oronir of the Azim Steppe.” Aymeric gave a quick half-bow that Magnai mimicked poorly. “Magnai,” he continued. “It is my pleasure to introduce Count Artoirel de Fortemps,” the taller of the two young men bowed, “his father, Lord Edmont de Fortemps,” at this, the old man bowed, “his younger brother, Lord Emmanelain de Fortemps,” the youngest of the three men bowed, “and his sister-in-law, Lady Rynn Greystone.” While all the others had bowed, she remained standing, and extended her hand toward him. 

Magnai blinked in confusion at the gesture, until Aymeric leaned close and whispered, “It is polite to take the lady’s hand and kiss her knuckles.” The youngest boy giggled, but the older two smiled sympathetically. He was surprised at the excuse to touch her, even put his lips on her. No woman of the Steppe would have allowed such familiarity so soon. But he had been told to be polite, and so he caught her soft hand in his calloused fingers, and lifted it to his lips, pressing his mouth against her fingers intimately as he stared into her eyes.

She withdrew her hand just as quickly, and stepped back amongst those who answered to ‘Fortemps’.

“Well,” this Aymeric patted his shoulder in a friendly manner. “I’m off to inflict one of his compatriots on the Haillenartes. Please forgive any indiscretions he might make. He’s only been in Ishgard a day.”

The two young men returned to their conversation, seeming to have dismissed Magnai as soon as Aymeric left. “I’m surprised the Lord Speaker convinced the rest of the parlaiment to even host this here,” The younger, Emmanelain, said.

“Well, we couldn’t very well let the Lominsans host it, the Gridanians absolutely would not, and Aymeric absolutely refused to let Ul’dah do it after the last feast he attended there,” Artoirel replied. Both men laughed. 

Their conversation didn’t really matter to Magnai. His eyes remained fixed on Rynn. The curve of her neck, the gentle movements of her ears, the soft blush when she caught him staring. “So, Magnai,” she said, bravely. “You are called Magnai the Elder. It implies there is a Magnai the Younger?”

He gave her a sharp nod. “My nephew, named in my honor after I became Khan.”

“And a khan,” The old man, Lord Edmont, interjected. “What is that, exactly?”

“It is… a khan?” Magnai said. “I am Khan of the Oronir tribe. Sadu,” he pointed to the infuriating woman who was - Azim burn them all for fools, was she sitting on that trembling boy’s lap? He shook his head. “Sadu is the Khan of the Dotharl tribe.”

“And both tribes live on the Azim Steppe?” Artoirel asked, now joining their conversation. 

“Yes?” the question confused him.

“Who rules over you?” Emmanellain asked. 

“The Khagan,” he answered curtly. Their questions were becoming troublesome. He wanted to speak to _Rynn_.

“And who is the Khagan?”

“The leader of the tribe that wins the Nadaam.” Magnai gritted out through clenched teeth.

“What’s the Nada-”

“That’s enough questions, Emmanellain,” Edmont said. “Magnai is very new to our fair city. There is no need to interrogate him.”

Into the awkward silence, Rynn asked, “What’s the Nadaam?”

Emmanellain began to complain, but Magnai smiled. He would answer a thousand of this woman’s questions, if only to be able to drink in the sight of her without interruption.

“It is a contest of champions. Every tribe sends their fiercest warriors, and they fight to control the ovoo, a sacred space on the field of battle. Once a tribe is victorious, the Nadaam is over, and the Khan of the winning tribe is declared Khagan until the next year’s Nadaam.”

“Has your tribe ever won?” Her question seemed benign, but he saw it there, just beneath the softness - a vicious streak that would cut him deeply if he crossed her.

It made him grin. “We usually do.”

“Wait, so are you the Khagan now?” Artoirel asked. 

Magnai bowed his head. “As of a few weeks ago, yes. Last year we were usurped by the Mol, but I argue it does not count, as they brought in the Warrior of Light to serve as their champion.”

All four of them laughed, and Emmanellain clapped his shoulder. “I think we can all agree, losses to the Warrior of Light do not count.”

Artoirel bowed formally. “Then I must ask your forgiveness for my earlier dismissive attitudes. We did not realize your station.”

“Station?” Emmanellain asked in confusion.

Edmont nodded. “If I understand correctly, their Khagan is their king, and a khan would be a count of a great house. So Magnai here would be the ‘Count’ of House Oronir, and the ‘King’ of the Azim Steppe, until their next contest of arms.”

“If you say so,” Magnai said. “I know little of your foreign titles.”

“Just so, Just so,” the old man said. “Well, we are all friends here, regardless. I’m sure you must have some questions for us?”

Magnai pondered for a moment. He had a thousand questions, but he did not wish to repeat Emmanellain’s folly. So he went for the simple one instead. “Who was Haurchefant Greystone? Why does his widow spend time with the Fortemps? Where is his family?”

He only realized he’d found a different folly when Edmont’s face became distinctly pained.

* * *

He learned a thousand things about the Eorzeans that night, and it made his head hurt. He did not know what to make of any of the Fortemps, and Rynn…

Rynn had allowed him to take her for a walk on one of the long balconies in the moonlight in lieu of a ‘dance’ as he did not know their stilted steps.There, away from the prying eyes and ears of the men, she asked, “Why did you follow me to the Cathedral?”

He lowered his head and chuckled. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

“What do you think of Ishgard?” He heard the weight in her voice. This question was a test, a judgement of him.

“It is cold,” he would not lie to her. “It is cold and it is stone but it has its moments of beauty. I do not think I could remain here long.” The answer did not seem to upset her, so he ventured a question of his own.

“You are not Elezen, like the rest of them. Why did you stay in Ishgard?”

“Haurchefant,” she replied. “Then his memory.” Rynn placed a hand on her stomach. “I loved him. I love him still, but…” 

“But he was your Azim, the sun that brought warmth and light to this place. And now that he is gone this place is cold to you. And no amount of friendliness from his family is enough to make up that shadow in your heart.” Magnai’s heart clenched at the idea. It was always tragic when Azim and his Nhaama were parted, regardless of their forms.

She leaned her head on his arm. “That is a good way to put it.”

“When my father died,” he said, surprised at how thick his voice was. “My mother left the Oronir. She left the Steppe all together. She travelled far and wide, and found herself a new Azim, a silk merchant in Kugane.” He remembered what his mother had told him, when he had objected to his father’s Nhaama marrying another man. 

_”All women are Nhaama to someone. Just because Azim sets in one life, does not mean he does not rise in another. Loss like that changes us all. I was, and will always be, your father’s Nhaama. But just as her face changes in her dance, so too has my heart changed. I am a new Nhaama, for a new Azim. I do not love him the same way I love your father, just as I do not love either of them the same way I love my little Magnai.”_

“Leaving the Steppe was good for her. It was filled with memories of my father, and though she loved our people, she needed to be freed from her grief.” Magnai let his eyes linger on the top of Rynn’s head. “Maybe you should travel. Find a new Azim.”

She laughed. “Where would I go?”

“Wherever you like,” he replied. “Though… I can think of a few places I would take you.” 

Rynn’s eyes flicked up to meet his, and they stared at each other in the moonlight. That was when he knew. This was his Nhaama. Whomever that Haurchefant had been, he had been good to her, and his death had made her change her face. And now she was his. That was what mattered.

“Like where?” she whispered, and she did not fight as his hand moved from her arm to her waist, as he pulled her closer to him.

“I would take you to the great cliff at the edge of the Sea of Blades, so you could look out upon Azim as he rose from the mists at dawn, bringing warmth and light to the steppe.” He let his free hand brush against her cheek. “I would take you to Reunion, and buy you every pretty trinket the Silent Qestiri brought forward in a desperate bid to please you.” Her laughter made him smile. “I would take you to the Dawn Throne, the seat of my power, and present you to the Oronir as my Nhaama.” He leaned close, letting the prongs on his horns pin her face in place, forcing her to look into his eyes. “Then I would take you to my bed, and bring you to such great heights of pleasure that every other woman in the world would weep in wretched jealousy.”

He closed the gap and kissed her, like he’d been longing to do since that first glance that morning in the Pillars.

* * *

A week later, the negotiations had gone well, and the time had come to return to Othard. Magnai sat on the windowsill of Rynn’s bedroom in Fortemps Manor, his arms about Rynn’s waist as she stood between his legs, running her fingers over his hair, his face, his horns. He knew what she was doing - memorizing him so that she would not forget. He hated it.

“Come back with me,” he whispered. “Tell them I have carried you off. I will be the villain if that is what you want, Nhaama.”

“No…” she said. “I need time. Time without you turning my head, to think about things.”

He clicked his tongue and growled in the back of his throat. “But you are my Nhaama. Your place is by my side.”

“I’m not sure if that’s true. Give me time to…” She swallowed. “Give me time.”

Magnai closed his eyes, and lowered his head so that she could not see the way her refusal tore out his heart. When he could control his voice, he said, “If you ever change your mind, make your way to the Dawn Throne in the Azim Steppe. Tell the guards you are Magnai’s Nhaama. They will bring you to me.”

He stood, and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Please, Rynn. Change your mind.”

Then Magnai climbed down the stone wall outside her window, as he had when he’d left her every morning, and made his way to the airship landing.

* * *

**Three Months Later**

It was the anniversary of Haurchefant’s death. Rynn carefully arranged the black veil over her face, as she did every afternoon, and made her way to the Cathedral. Every year, House Fortemps had services said in his memory, and it was her duty to attend. She thought of Magnai’s face, and closed her eyes. 

That week… 

It had been an idyllic dream, that week with the Au Ra. Magnai was hard where Haurchefant had been soft. Honest where Haurchefant had teased. Unrestrained where Haurchefant had been controlled. But she was Widow Greystone, and she had duties to her husband’s memory. She could not leave.

To her surprise, Edmont was already in the cathedral when she entered, and she took her place in the pew beside him. While Halone’s priest intoned the prayers for compassion for the dead, the two of them knelt, and lowered their heads, praying for the dead man’s peace.

Once the service ended, the two of them remained in the pew, staring up at the statue of Halone.

“Do you know what Haurchefant said to me, when he begged my leave to marry you?” Edmont asked, without preamble.

“What?” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

“He told me, more than anything, he wanted you to be happy. And he felt that he was the best man to do that.”

“He was,” she replied, wiping tears from her eyes.

“While he was alive, yes. But Haurchefant as gone. And as much as we both miss him, all the grief in the world will not bring him back.” Edmont turned and looked at her, and patted her head gently. “He would not want this for you, Rynn. So tell me, why are you still here?”

She did not have an answer, even after the tap of his cane on the cathedral stone had faded into silence.

* * *

Magnai closed his eyes in frustration as two men came before him to settle their dispute. One of them, of the Goro tribe, claimed that the other, of the Oroq, had killed his wife, and used her fat to make his sled. This would have been a most serious accusation - were it not for the fact that the Goro married their _horses_ rather than women. 

Their argument had gone in circles for over an hour, and Magnai resorted to the only thing that had calmed him the last few months - thoughts of Rynn. He imagined her here by his side, seated on the arm of his throne. What would she say? What would _she_ do?

“Enough,” Magnai growled. “I have heard enough.”

Both men looked to him in alarm. 

“Do either of you dispute the fact that the horse has been killed?” He knew his voice was hard, and hoped they would assume it was anger, not the grief over knowing his Nhaama was a world away, and had chosen a prison of ice and stone over his land of grass and sunlight.

Both shook their head. 

“Do either of you dispute the fact that the Oroq used the horse’s corpse to make his sled?” They began to argue about who had done the killing, but he held up a hand. “I am not asking about the how your wife was killed, Goro. I am asking purely about what happened to her remains.”

They both voiced their agreement with his question.

“Very well. Goro, nothing the Oronir can do will bring back your wife. But in acknowledgement of your grief, we bid you go to the stables, and select our finest horse, that it might be brought back to your tribe, to increase the strength of your herds.” Magnai rubbed his head, and remembered Rynn’s fingers running through his hair that last morning. “Oroq. You will pay the Oronir the value of the horse he takes, for regardless of whether or not you committed the crime, you still benefitted from it.” He stood, and looked down at both men. “Will you both go peacefully from here?”

The two men bowed in submission. 

“Thus is peace returned to the Steppe, and glory brought to Azim,” Magnai said, the ritual closing words of official judgements. “You may go.”

After they had departed, he slumped back into his throne and looked up at the ceiling. Everything had been horrible since he left Rynn’s side, and not for the first time, he considered going back. Maybe it was a prison of ice and stone - but he would gladly accept bondage for one more moment with his Nhaama.

“Magnai!” One of his men called. “Your next audience is -”

“No,” he said, irritably. “I will hear no more petitions today.”

“But Magnai -”

“I said no!” he shouted. “I will not see anyone else! I am tired, and I am angry, and I -”

“Magnai?” Her voice was soft, just as he remembered it, with that quiet core of steel.

He looked to the doors, and there she stood. His Nhaama, his Rynn, wearing simple travelling leathers with a bag over one shoulder. Without a word, he stood, and began walking toward her.

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” she began, but he got to her before she could say another word, and put his arms around her.

“Are you here to stay?” he whispered, pulling her against him and kissing her cheek, her chin, her forehead. “Please, tell me you are here to stay.”

“I am here to stay, as long as you will have me,” Rynn whispered.

He picked her up, tossing her over his shoulder, then glared at the other men idling around the throne. “We’ll be in my room. If anyone disturbs us, I will kill him.” Then Magnai carried her down the stairs into the depths of the bowl, and the warren of rooms within.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my writing and wanna see more of it, I post when my fics update on twitter: @amandaterasu


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